


Negotiation

by OliTheOlive



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/F, F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Polyamory, fenris/merrill if you squint real hard, hawke has angst and anxiety, realllllll hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 21:26:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11216580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OliTheOlive/pseuds/OliTheOlive
Summary: Several challenging months after Fenris joined her and Merrill at the estate, Hawke wakes up alone and wonders what's become of her lovers. What she finds is not what she expects.[set in Act 3, with Merrill romanced after Fenris]





	Negotiation

Hawke awoke to an empty bed and the pale gray light of an overcast morning. She frowned and propped herself up on an elbow, patting the rumpled sheets on either side of her. Not even a lingering warmth. With two lovers sharing her home now, it was highly unusual to wake up without at least one person tucked against her. Hawke sat up and cast a suspicious glance around the room. Even Dog's spot at the foot of the bed was empty, the room strangely quiet without his usual snoring.

There was, most probably, a benign explanation for Merrill and Fenris – and even Dog! - both waking up early and leaving her alone in bed. If it was a mission, they'd have brought her along. A burglar, and they'd have dragged her out of bed to help fight the scoundrel off. If it was a kidnapping....it couldn't be a kidnapping; certainly no one could steal them right from her arms without her noticing and waking up. Certainly. Hawke rose from the bed with wary haste, unable to settle the tight twisting of her stomach.

She grabbed her staff from where it was propped against her wardrobe, but didn't bother with changing into her clothes or light mage's armor. Fighting in her night robe would put her at some disadvantage, but in an emergency – was this an emergency? - with lives on the line, time was the most valuable thing. No point being properly dressed to face whatever demon or vagabond had Fenris and Merrill if they'd been hurt in the time it took her to get presentable.

Hawke tiptoed out of her room and stole through the halls as quietly as she could manage. She was no rogue, but she had learned the basics from Varric and Isabela, and she fancied herself rather good for an amateur. Hopefully, her skills would be enough to catch this enemy off guard. Whatever enemy it was. If it existed. A lifetime skirting the edge of disaster – in hiding from templars, in poverty as refugees, in the center of Kirkwall's underworld with a half dozen targets on her back at any given point – had taught her to expect the worst. She pushed away panicked thoughts of Merrill's face twisted in pain, of Fenris fallen and bloodied, and hurried over the wood floors of the Hawke estate as quickly as stealth would allow.

Still no sign of anyone, not even Orana or Bodahn and Sandal, as she reached the main hall on the ground floor. Her soft footsteps echoed in her ears. She had no cover in this wide open space with its great windows. But she also saw no signs of a fight or any struggle at all. The room was eerie and vacant, but it lacked the toppled furniture and bloodstains she would have expected from some unknown villain trying to drag away her lovers. It was not as if either Merrill or Fenris would have gone without resisting, and she knew how messy it got when they fought someone in earnest.

_“Are you sure it's wise, keeping them both in your house together?” Anders asks, tilting his head in concern._

_“I am not 'keeping them' anywhere,” she sighs, “You talk like I'm caging up two wild animals.”_

_“One wild animal, and one guileless blood mage,” Anders shrugs, “And they hate each other.”_

_Hawke levels him with a stern glare. His shoulders sag in resignation, but the way he sulks as he looks away is more jealousy than it is chagrin._

_“They don't hate each other. They just don't understand each other.”_

_“They fight all the time, Hawke.”_

_“That's not fighting. You've been on enough missions with each of them to know what it looks like when they're fighting someone.”_

_Anders lets loose a long-suffering sigh and shakes his head. He gives her a look that reminds her of her mother scolding her for wandering alone in the woods as a child. As if she is rushing headlong into a danger she doesn't know enough to recognize. Because they are friends, she decides not to punch him in his meddling face._

Hawke shook her head to clear it. This was no time for reminiscing; there were potentially dozens of enemies to fight and the two people dearest to her in the world to save. It might be nothing. But she had lost her mother already to what had seemed like nothing. She listened to the gaping silence of the manor, searching for any hint of sound. If it was kidnappers, perhaps they were gone already. She certainly didn't hear a battle anywhere close.

A burst of noise shattered the eerie silence – the clang of metal crashing against metal, frightened screams, a muffled explosion, and a feverish string of Tevene curses. Hawke's heart clenched, all thoughts of how ridiculous and paranoid she was being chased from her mind. The sound had come from her right, near the back entrance of the manor.

_Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you_

Hawke adjusted her grip on her staff so she could use it to bludgeon people as well as to cast, then darted full speed in the direction of the sound. Stealth be damned. She was not going to be too late, not again.

The kitchen lay between her and the back entrance, but she knew she could make quick work of dodging around the big center table. She would leap it if she had to. It would be the work of moments to reach the back door. Hawke threw herself into the kitchen door, battering it open, and rushed full speed through the kitchen.

Or, in fact, rushed full speed into Bodahn, who was bent over two paces from the door, and sent them both tumbling to the kitchen floor in a mess of limbs and bruises and grunts of surprise. She landed with his head under her ribs and her legs tangled with his. Her staff had walloped her in the ear on the way down, and now lay awkwardly across her body from shoulder to hip. But at least she hadn't dropped it. A small frying pan was wedged underneath her, digging into her shoulder blade.

“Hawke!” cried out two voices, almost in unison, both pitched sharp with shock.

“Mistress!” a third voice, Orana's voice, rough at the edges from a recent scream.

Bodahn, underneath her, groaned something that sounded vaguely like 'Apologies, Mistress.' There were no other shouts, no sound of weapons drawing, no grunts of someone struggling to break a restraining hold. Hawke closed her eyes and groaned something that was decidedly not fit for polite company. A snuffle near at hand warned her a moment before Dog's damp muzzle touched her face, followed immediately by his tongue. So much for emergencies and mortal danger.

Hawke muttered one final curse word before sitting up and nudging Dog away. She dropped her staff to the side and made quick work of extricating herself from poor old Bodahn. The side of her head ached, but only a bit. She probably deserved it. Bodahn was starting to sit up, rubbing his neck and wincing. She stood and helped him to his feet, then retrieved her staff. Her fingers tapped a quiet staccato on its wooden surface as she looked around the room with a sheepish grimace.

The big center table was covered in flour and a dark brown sludge. Fenris, standing on the other side of it, was similarly coated, streaks of white and brown like battle paint across his face. The oven was smoking and sputtering, emitting a foul stench. Merrill stood in front of it with an apron over her usual clothes and a thick layer of ash spattered on her face and chest. Orana was cowering in the corner, as far from the oven as possible, and suspiciously close to what had to have been the aftermath of an avalanche of pots and pans.

“Oh dear,” Merrill sighed, “I told you we should have left a note.”

“And I told you to let Orana handle the baking,” Fenris retorted.

Hawke snorted, felt a grin spreading across her face. She didn't fight the laughter that bubbled up through her to fill the kitchen. She couldn't have if she'd wanted to. She kept laughing until her eyes watered. Merrill joined her soon enough, eyes crinkled and sparkling as she giggled into her hand. Bodahn snickered beside her. Fenris quirked his wry little smile, eyes bright, and a short chuckle hummed from his chest. Even Orana grinned, though it looked more like relief than mirth.

“Well,” Hawke pronounced, breathless and red-faced, “I am just the perfect fool.”

“Mm, you're half-right,” Fenris said, still smiling.

Hawke felt heat rise up her neck, and her heart swelled with affection. She had been surprised the first time Fenris' wit peeked through his brooding exterior. Now, though it was familiar, it thrilled her even more.

“I was worried. You never both wake up before me,” she said, glancing around again at the disaster that was her kitchen, “What are you up to, anyway?”

Fenris cast a look at Merrill, then his eyes returned to Hawke. He shrugged.

“I have been sworn to secrecy. And one does not simply break oaths made to blood mages.”

Hawke's eyebrows had barely drawn together in frustration when Merrill huffed an exasperated sigh and brushed her hands over what spots of her apron were still clean.

“You are impossible. Didn't we have a truce for today?”

To Hawke's surprise, there was actually some guilt in Fenris' green eyes before he turned them down and pretended to adjust the position of his belt. She wondered if she had imagined it. She knew better than to let her hopes get too high, regardless.

_“Welcome to our home,” Merrill says, her smile bright and warm._

_Fenris looks up from brushing his hand over a row of books to glare at her. Hawke glances at the clock and grits her teeth. Less than an hour. She owes Varric two gold pieces._

_“It is Hawke's home,” Fenris growls._

_Merrill's face falls, and for a moment she looks ready to throw up her hands. But then she summons a mild, patient smile._

_“I live here, too, you know. And so do you now,” she says, and steps forward to reach gingerly for Fenris' arm, “It is our home, Hawke's and yours and mine.”_

_Fenris allows Merrill to touch his arm, just below the juncture of his elbow. He holds himself still with the same deliberate focus that Hawke remembers from years ago, before they were lovers or even friends, when she had first tentatively laid her hand on his in comfort._

_“You are home here,” Merrill says into the soft air between herself and Fenris, “You do not have to be on guard, lethallin.”_

_Fenris' face twists into a scowl as he tears his arm away and steps well out of Merrill's reach. Hawke sucks in a sharp breath. Her heart aches to see the fear and hurt in his eyes._

_“Do not try to claim what is not yours, mage,” Fenris snarls, voice darkening with hatred on the epithet, and repeats more viciously, “This is Hawke's home.”_

_Hawke winces, stomach sinking, as he spins on his heel and stalks out of the room. She wonders how he can still spit the word 'mage' like a curse when he holds her so tenderly, knowing full well what she is. She wonders if it hurts Merrill as much to hear it, or if it is her love for him that makes it hurt more. She wonders, again, if this is a mistake._

_Merrill turns back to Hawke and smiles sadly. She closes the distance between them and wraps her arms around Hawke's ribs, pressing her face against Hawke's shoulder._

_“You were right,” she murmurs, “It was too soon for 'lethallin'...”_

_Hawke kisses Merrill's soft hair and holds her close. She cannot lose this sweet, beautiful woman. She looks up at the open door, still swinging gently where Fenris left it. She cannot lose that sweet, frightened man, either. Not again. She sighs and closes her eyes, breathes in the scent of Merrill's soap lingering on her black hair. Mistake or no, it will have to work somehow._

Hawke frowned as the silence stretched on. It couldn't have been more than a moment or two, but it felt like ages. Bodahn cleared his throat. Orana busied herself with starting to pick up the mountain of toppled pots and pans. Finally, Fenris dusted invisible lint off his tunic and looked up again, first at Merrill – briefly, barely long enough to catch it – and then at Hawke.

“We did,” he said, “I will be more careful of it.”

It was not an apology, not really, but Merrill lowered her hackles anyway. She was more forgiving than anyone deserved. Hawke was sometimes amazed that she had been blessed with the fortune of this woman's love. More than sometimes.

“Anyway,” Merrill said, “It was supposed to be a surprise, but since you're here – and we all know it's pointless to shoo you away when you're already curious – and anyway the plan has gone a bit off, itself, too – perhaps it would have been better to ask Orana for help, I mean I'm really not a baker but-”

“Merrill,” Fenris said before Hawke could, his low voice calm, almost gentle, “Babbling.”

“Oh!” Merrill gasped, blushing, and bounced up on her toes in the way she always did to gather her thoughts back into place, “Thank you, Fenris. What I meant is, happy birthday!”

She had turned to face Hawke, beaming, and thrown her arms out in the same motion one might use to present a grand treasure. Hawke raised an eyebrow. Birthday? Her birthday wasn't until....

“What month is it?”

“Middle of Cloudreach, Mistress. Fourteenth day, to be exact,” Bodahn supplied, when both Merrill and Fenris simply stared at her.

“Oh...well, then,” Hawke murmured.

Between missions and the stress of keeping up with mage-templar tensions in the city – not to mention the tensions inside her own home – Hawke had apparently lost all track of time. She could have sworn it was only late Drakonis.

“Hawke...” Fenris said at length, the concern clear in his voice.

There would be time later to soothe his concern and to vent her own worries. She sighed to see the same concern mirrored in Merrill's expression. Hawke might have to have this conversation twice if she waited, but she had no desire to have it now. She smirked teasingly.

“So you planned – together – to surprise me with....what, exactly, was all this supposed to be?”

She gestured at the flour and slime on the table and the singed crackling mess inside the oven. Both Merrill and Fenris flushed and cleared their throats awkwardly.

“It was meant to be a cake,” Fenris answered.

“Chocolate,” Merrill added, “And spiced.”

“I-I was helping them with the recipe, Mistress,” Orana spoke up, hands fiddling nervously, “Mister Bodahn helped me ask at the restaurant about what spices to use.”

Hawke looked at each of them in turn, her heart melting more with each passing second. She did not often visit the upscale restaurants in Hightown, but had recently let Sebastian drag her and the others there after a successful mission. There had been a spiced chocolate drink on the menu, and she had loved it so much she'd ordered four of them just for herself. Varric had joked that she should buy the place, or at least hire the cook, so she could have it every day. But luxuries lost their appeal when you had them every day, and she already had a cook. Neither Merrill nor Fenris had made much of it that day, or spoken of it since. But apparently they had both been thinking of how much she had loved the spiced chocolate. And even Orana and Bodahn had helped.

_The candle is burning low, so that Hawke has to squint to make out the letters in the book she is reading. But with Merrill curled up beside her on the couch, tattooed face serene where it lay in her lap, Hawke doesn't dare get up to fetch a new candle. Really, it's about time for bed; her eyes droop even as she tries to keep reading. And Merrill could just as easily curl up against her once they were settled snugly in her large bed upstairs. But the elf maiden looks so adorable, Hawke isn't sure her heart could take disturbing Merrill's sleep._

_“There you are.”_

_Hawke looks up, only barely surprised to see Fenris walking in from the main hall. He smiles – the soft, secret smile that he shows only to her – and pads across the room to her. She reaches out toward him, and he brings himself close enough that she can lay her hand on his hip._

_“Here I am.”_

_Fenris' gaze drops to Merrill, thoughtful, and then flicks to the candle just within reach of the couch. He twists to put it out with his fingers. The moon is full, so they are not left in darkness. The pale light makes his hair and the lyrium in his skin seem to glow. Hawke knows she is staring, just as she knows he catches her at it when he twists back again. He only smiles wider._

_Hawke watches as Fenris settles slowly to the floor, sitting back against the couch with his shoulder touching her thigh and his legs tucked up to his chest. He leans his head down onto her lap with great care to not disturb Merrill. As he closes his eyes, Hawke lays her hand gently over his temple. With the other, she takes Merrill's hand and holds it gently. Merrill, too, seems to glow, her pale skin like a reflection of the moon that peeks in through the window. Hawke feels her eyes fill with tears, and she grins at the warmth in her chest._

“A valiant effort,” Hawke said, when she recovered her voice, and thank Andraste it didn't waver, at least not much.

Fenris snorted, and Merrill hummed a note full of lament. But they were both smiling, staring at Hawke and what was surely an embarrassingly touched expression on her face.

“Truly, thank you,” Hawke murmured, eyes wet, before she gave an impish smile, “But, since the cake has met a tragic end, I think I have another idea.”

“What sort of idea?” Fenris asked warily.

“Oh, I was thinking,” Hawke drawled, to drag out the suspense, “It's a real nice night for an evening. Isn't it?”

Fenris raised his eyebrows. Hawke didn't know if it was in appreciation or distress, but either way she grinned even wider. Merrill took a step forward; she was definitely distressed.

“But, Hawke, it's daytime. Are you sure you're-.....oh, oh wait,” she smiled in realization, and not even a breath later groaned, “You know, there are less painful ways to suggest a stroll along the Wounded Coast. And aren't there bandits roaming it now?”

“It's my birthday, Merrill, I think I should get to slice up some bandits at least.”

Merrill rolled her eyes, but they were full of affection under the exasperated look she gave Hawke. No doubt, it was only because she knew the bandits that lurked on the Wounded Coast were wretched, cruel men that she did not protest the suggestion of fighting as sport. Dusting off her hands one more time, she crossed the kitchen to Hawke and pecked her cheek.

“What am I going to do with you?”

“I have a few ideas for that, as well,” Hawke purred, turning to pull Merrill into her arms and giving the woman's pointed ear a gentle nip.

Merrill pressed closer to her, cheeks flushed, and gave her a proper kiss on the lips. Hawke's heart soared, just as it did every time, just as she hoped it always would. Merrill stepped out of her arms, smiling and flushed and adorably shy.

“You'll need to put some clothes on to be fighting bandits,” Merrill said, “And Fenris and I need a bit of freshening up, I think.”

“Agreed,” Fenris said, and Hawke glanced to the side to see Fenris had also moved closer, only an armslength away from her now.

“True enough,” she conceded, “Regroup in a half hour?”

Merrill nodded, still smiling, and slipped away out of the kitchen. Orana and Bodhan had already busied themselves with picking up the mess; she made a mental note to double their salaries for the week. Fenris watched her, his green eyes calm. He smiled, not the secret tender smile reserved for her, but not the usual wry smile he wore, either.

“She makes you happy.”

“Yes,” Hawke answered, “And you make me happy.”

Fenris nodded. He closed the distance between them and pulled her carefully into him, pressing a kiss to her lips that was as full of yearning as it was chaste. When they drew apart, his eyes were warm and open, vulnerable as she did not often see them.

“I,” he murmured, then chuckled and began again, “We, remain at your side.”

_Varric stares her down over the rim of his mug of ale. She stares right back, unfazed._

_“And here I thought the great Champion of Kirkwall had settled down already.”_

_“I have. I am.”_

_“Openly taking two lovers isn't really Kirkwall's idea of settling down, Hawke.”_

_He leans forward, just slightly, and squints as if searching Hawke's face for signs of fever. Hawke rolls her eyes and leans back in her chair._

_“I love them both. They both love me. I hadn't thought to choose, and then....then I thought Fenris had chosen for me,” Hawke swallows the words down like a bite of hard tack, “Merrill knew better...she knew we needed each other, just as much as she and I do.”_

_“So, this was all Merrill's idea?” Varric asks, incredulous._

_“She just pointed out what was true.”_

_“Okay,” Varric hums, “...and Fenris?”_

_Hawke thinks back to the astonishment on Fenris' face when she had told him how she felt, and asked about that night years ago, and invited him into heart, where really he had already been for half a decade. She thinks back to how he had stared into his fireplace, thinking it over, for so long Hawke started to fear he'd decide to leave for good. And then she thinks back to how he had turned, finally, and promised her the future with a steady voice and shining eyes._

_“You know Fenris,” she says casually, “He does nothing he doesn't want to do. Very adamant about that.”_

_Varric grunted and took another long drink of his ale. When he set the mug down again, the searching look was gone._

_"I guess congratulations are in order then, oh Champion my Champion. I'm thinking – hear me out – a rousing parade through town culminating in the public consummation of the happy marriage.”_

_Hawke laughs aloud, hearty and full. Because they are friends, she gives him a solid kick under the table and laughs again at his disgruntled 'oof.'_

Hawke smiled at Fenris, her eyes pricking at the edges with tears, and pulled him close for another, slower kiss. She knew there would still be struggles, difficulties, between her two lovers for a long while. Perhaps forever. But this was more than she had let herself dare to hope. They were not friends, exactly, but they were nothing close to enemies. There was a truce, built on their love for her. She drew away far enough to meet Fenris' eyes, and let her tears trickle down her cheeks as she grinned at him.

“I am yours,” she whispered.

“Ours,” Fenris echoed.


End file.
